


Recycling

by Marion



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: AU, Alternate Universes, Angst, Drama, M/M, Other: See Story Notes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-10
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-11 09:39:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/796794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marion/pseuds/Marion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A surreal vision of the future?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Recycling

## Recycling

#### by Marion

  
I have no control over my subconscious;)  
Thank you to all those who encouraged me with this. It's an unusual one for me.   
  
This story came to me, more or less, fully formed in a dream, hence it's odd, surreal form. I'd really like to know what people think.   
  


* * *

Since the Catastrophe, what was left of the buildings stood in ruins, like large pieces of modern art, all jagged and irregular. Every now and again, for no apparent reason, a section of one would collapse with an earth trembling roar and a cloud of brick dust. 

He sat on the old park bench, clad in rags, his life reduced to a plastic bag and the bench he had made his home, only moving when he needed to find somewhere private to relieve himself, to hunt for food and drink, or to collect litter that blew around. Litter that, for some unexplained reason, he kept picking up and putting into a succession of plastic bags. When they were full, he took them elsewhere and returned with an empty bag, to start the process all over again. Often he'd slip into some sort of a daze, until the sudden rumble of one of the unstable buildings nearby as it collapsed shook him back to life or one of the other 'residents' in the area noticed and stepped up to shake him to see if he was still alive. 

Since the Catastrophe, there were many who slept in the streets in the open, rather than risk being buried under tons of rubble. The Catastrophe traumatized so many people, to the point where they couldn't bear to remember life as it was. Only life _now_ was safe to remember, to accept, to deal with. To survive today was enough for most. 

And life wasn't easy on the streets. Many died, either because they didn't have the survival instinct or know how, or because they just gave up. _He_ would help them where he could, point them in the right direction. But he wouldn't allow anyone to get too close, and no one -- _no one_ \-- dared sit on his bench. He had an air about him -- a 'look - but - don't - touch' attitude and an unspoken sadness, which drove people away. 

Then, one day, a street kid appeared. No one knew or cared where he came from. He could have been any age above twenty and below thirty. He had blue eyes and a restless nature. His curly brown hair hung loose and matted around his shoulders. He moved onto the older man's bench, encroached on his territory and, strangely, the tramp let him. They chatted softly, so only they could hear each other, hunted for food together, hung out together, and, at night, the kid fucked the older guy until they both screamed as they came.... 

The world seemed brighter for them both and the stillness affected the older man less often. 

Only, one day, the kid disappeared and the older man spent the nights crying piteously 'til, one day, he just stopped. He returned to the way he was before, the gray returning to his life. The stillness came more often, and sometimes days would go by when no one could wake him. If he had anything worth stealing, he would have lost it then, but the others in the park guarded him, chasing off any who would take even the few clothes he wore. He lost weight and became weaker. His feet dragged as he walked and he seemed to be carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. 

Then, one day, a young man arrived, tidily dressed with clean curly brown hair and blue eyes. He squatted down in front of the older man's bench and put his hands on the man's knees. The older man was as still as a statue. 

"Jim, come back to me," the young man whispered. 

And the man -- Jim -- blinked and his hands went to the young man's face. "Blair? Where did you go?" 

"I remembered who and what I was before the Catastrophe, where I came from. I went back to find if that place still existed and if that person was still me. I found a refuge, a sanctuary, where I could live. But I couldn't live -- not alone, not without you -- so I came to fetch you. Come with me, Jim." He took Jim's hand and kissed the palm. 

But Jim was uncertain. "I can't, Blair. I don't know..." 

"You can. Please, Jim. There _is_ a place for you there. However, if you find that it isn't for you, if you're unhappy there, if you want to return here, I'll come back with you. I'm not leaving you again." And he stood and offered Jim his hand. 

And Jim took it. He stood and they started to walk away, then Jim stopped, turned and came back. He came up to me and sat on my bench. He handed me an empty plastic bag and said, "Use this to pick up the litter. Once it's been filled, tie it up and start another. There are plenty of them about." 

And together they walked away. 

* * *

End Recycling by Marion: marion.sherringham@ntlworld.com  
Author and story notes above.

  
Disclaimer: _The Sentinel_ is owned etc. by Pet Fly, Inc. These pages and the stories on them are not meant to infringe on, nor are they endorsed by, Pet Fly, Inc. and Paramount. 


End file.
